


A Borrowed Name

by MercuryGray



Series: The Royal Tigress [8]
Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, Illegitimacy, Illegitimate Children, Past Relationship(s), Season/Series 04, Selective Truth Telling, double standards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 07:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16445183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray
Summary: Trying to mend his relationship with Demelza, Ross has agreed to take a house in London for the next session of Parliament, hoping that closing a physical distance will help mend the emotional distance between him and his wife. London, after all, has all manner of distractions and diversions- and old friends, with old secrets that may threaten Ross's marriage even more than his present secrets do. (Mostly canon-compliant for placement in Season 4 near episodes 6, 7, or 8).





	A Borrowed Name

**Author's Note:**

> After watching Season 4, and the stunning display of Ross's total oblivion to how unfair and one-sided his treatment of the Hugh/Demelza affair is when stacked against his own myriad wrongdoings, I knew I had to write something where someone brings his double standard to his attention.
> 
> For those of you not familiar, the short version: Lady Lavinia Montrose is an original character of mine with a starring role in a whole string of little fics grouped here under The Royal Tigress. She is a lady of property with an old and inattentive husband, a hidden agenda, and a strong taste in very difficult men. She and Ross have quite a history together, which you can read about in The Bondage of Certain Ribbons and A La Turque.

_ The merchant, to secure his treasure,  _

_ Conveys it in a borrowed name;  _

_ Euphelia serves to grace my measure,  _

_ But Cloe is my real flame.  _

 

_...My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,  _

_ But with my numbers mix my sighs;  _

_ And whilst I sing Euphelia’s praise,  _

_ I fix my soul on Cloe’s eyes. _

\- An Ode, Matthew Prior  
  


* * *

  
  


It was strange, having his family with him in London. For so long he had lived as a born-again bachelor, unencumbered by the need to keep anything more than a rented room when he was up for sessions. But now that Demelza and the children were coming to visit, more was required. Room for Jemmy and Clowance to run around a bit, and room for Ross to do his work while they did so, and room so Demelza might entertain guests, if she was inclined. (She’d told him she wouldn’t, but Ross knew his wife well enough to know that she hated for accounts to be left unpaid, social or otherwise.)

A townhouse in Mayfair would have been ruinous, but there were accommodations to be had in other, less fashionable neighborhoods, where a carriage could be rented only when it was needed and a smaller staff would serve to keep the place tidy. There was a study for Ross’s papers, and a front room so Demelza might be at home when convention required such things. Together the two of them talked, of Ross’s work in Parliament and Demelza’s adventures about town with the children. A simpler life, in many ways - for with no distance between them, there was no longer any space for secrets. 

They had been growing apart, for a long time now, it seemed, and after Ross's time away in London, the space between them had only deepened. It would be good, if they could at least spend a few months in the same house. The still-present spectre of Hugh Armitage would be left at home, and they could begin anew. 

Indeed, life was already feeling more orderly - Ross returned home in the evenings to a hot meal at a table with a cloth, and not some warmed-over chop at an eating house, ready to discuss the issues of the day. 

Today, however, it was Demelza who had an issue for him - a letter, which she produced at dinner after the table had been cleared and the candles were lower in their holders. 

“We've been invited to tea.”

“Who by?” Ross inquired, wondering why a simple invitation should have been a cause for concern.

Demelza did not need to consult the paper again, and gave the name from memory. “A Lady Lavinia Montrose.”

Annie, the day maid who had been engaged on Demelza’s arrival, positively squealed with excitement, drawing her mistress’ eye away from her husband for the brief moment it took him to hide his recognition of the name. “Oh, ma’am! Why ever didn’t you say! She’s a lady of fashion, she is!”

Demelza decided to overlook the clear violation of protocol and returned to her husband for an explanation that would not involve shrieks of delight. (Annie was young in her trade, and prone to excitability; one of Demelza’s new hats had thrown her into paroxysms of rapture over how much it resembled one worn by one of her much-loved fashion plates.)

Keeping secrets, Ross decided quickly, would have to remain in the cards a little while longer. “She is a ...society hostess,” he managed, trying to sound disinterested. “Her invitations are much prized.” 

“But why ever should she wish to see us?” his wife wanted to know.

Why ever would she? There were reasons enough she’d wish to see Ross - though none that he’d mention in front of his wife. To say she was a society hostess was to stretch the truth a bit - for in her day, Lavinia Montrose had been a celebrated beauty and a scandal, better known for the wild, extravagant way she spent her husband’s money, and the string of broken men she left in her wake while doing it. 

And what Ross particularly did not want Demelza to know was that he had been, for quite some time, one of those men.

“These women collect people - for their parties or...or amusements. She’ll have a list of all the MPs up for sessions, and is working her way through, I’m sure. ” 

But could he really be sure? Lavinia! The name belonged to a different age, before his children, before his marriage, before, even, his return to Cornwall.  He had not sought her out in London - indeed, he had not even been made aware she was in town. But it hardly signified - fifteen years had elapsed since last they had seen each other, and much water had run under many bridges. When last they had seen each other, he had been a young man in need of a loan to shore up his ailing mine, and she the young wife of a banker with the power to grant it to him, two people who had once, even longer ago, been lovers. He was not the same man he had been then, and it was foolish to think she would be the same woman. 

Some things, of course, had not changed. The house in Mayfair to which they were bid to come for tea, for instance, was still the same as when Ross had paid all those calls all those years ago, the columns still white and the stoop still freshly scrubbed, the stones only a little more weathered. There was a different face at the door, a footman to show them inside, but it was still the same treasure-house of curiosities, acquired over many long years across many, many adventures.

“Was her husband in the diplomatic service?” Demelza asked quietly, taking stock of the exotic knives in sunburst on the wall, the collection of painted vases, the landscapes along the hall.

Ross made an indeterminate sound of agreement, knowing that it was not Sir James who had brought home these treasures, but Lavinia herself, gifts and tokens from grateful patrons and, more often, romantic conquests. ‘The diplomatic service’ would have been a kind way to phrase her life’s work - the wild living for which she was known had hidden a darker trade, one in which she was an intelligencer, confidante, and spy, sometimes for the Crown, but more often for her husband and his business interests. 

None of which, he hoped, would come up in conversation today.

Oh, how could he have doubted? The Tigress was the same as he remembered her. There were now some lines around her eyes, and a certain dimming of the color in her hair, but age had only served to make Lavinia Montrose’s beauty stronger, somehow, a burning brand that was now settled into polished steel. But she was still the beauty the bon ton had celebrated, and, Ross thought, if someone challenged her, her claws would still be found sharp. 

“It has been a long time, I think, Captain Poldark,” she said, coming around the tea-table and offering her hand to shake, her smile and the smell of her perfume making his heart jump a little in his chest. 

“I...thought you would not remember me,” Ross said quickly, trying to catch her eye so she might understand his predicament. “The ...American war was a long time ago.” Could we not skip certain parts of our narrative? his eyes asked silently.

“You are acquainted?” Demelza asked, obviously trying not to be put out that her husband had withheld this vital information.

Lavinia managed a reply with characteristic aplomb. “Many, many years ago, I met a charming young lieutenant by the name of Poldark in New York City. A rogue and a gambler then, as memory serves. We danced several times at Sir Henry Clinton’s parties.” Ross was recalling that they did a deal more than dance after several of those parties, but the image was innocent enough for Demelza’s hearing. It had been a long time ago, and there was no need she should know more. “You must imagine how pleased I was to see he had made a better end for himself, and thought I should invite him to call.”

After introducing herself to Demelza, the three of them sat down, Lavinia pouring tea while Demelza made a comment about the china and Ross tried merely to keep himself and his surprise in check, agog that he should be alive in such a moment where two of the women who had perhaps had the most influence on his life (save perhaps his mother, or Elizabeth) were now in the same room and exchanging pleasantries, and the universe had not seen fit to explode - yet.

The two women were just discussing the difficulty of engaging good kitchen help when there was a loud flight down the stairs, and a young person materialized in the doorway, evidently in haste to go out. "Mama, Harriet Veneables and I are going to the -- oh, you have guests."

Lavinia looked as though she’d been taken by surprise at the sudden arrival of this young person - though, in her usual way, managed to set the feeling aside in the interest of politesse.  "Perhaps you will delay a moment for an introduction…” she offered, reminding the girl of her manners. “This is Captain Ross Poldark, an old acquaintance, and his wife, Demelza. Captain Poldark, Mrs Poldark ...my daughter, Diana."

The nymph in the doorway dipped a perfunctory curtsey, meeting Demelza's gaze, and then Ross's. Her eyes were bright green, like her mother's, but there were dark curls under her hat, not auburn, and... something familiar around her face. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, madam." She locked eyes with her mother, determined to make her exit. "The carriage is waiting, Mama. I promise I shan't be late for dinner."

"Please give Harriet my regards,” Lavinia said, and, so dismissed, her daughter bundled herself out the front door and into the carriage waiting outside, a sudden burst of girlish laughter following her from the street as the carriage pulled away.

Ross looked at the empty doorway, her hair and her age and the shape of her face finally clicking into place. "Your daughter," he repeated. God in heaven.

"Fifteen this year and entirely her mother's child," the mistress of the house offered, mostly to Demelza. "Stubborn and reckless. But a woman has need of a strong spirit if she is to make anything of herself in this world, do you not find?" she asked Demelza.

"And there is nothing of her father in her, too?" Demelza asked, innocently making conversation.

"Perhaps... something. But Sir James will say she takes entirely after me.” Lavinia met Ross's eye with a level gaze, as if daring him to make his surprise better known. 

Ross could not speak. Fifteen this year! It had been fifteen years since he'd been to London to seek his loan with Lavinia - and if that were so, then that meant when they had spent all that time...

If he had needed further proof than that, her hair would provide it. That color, and those curls! Jemmy's hair was flat, and Clowance took after her mother in a lighter shade, but Diana Montrose's hair was the spitting image of Ross's own, longer and dressed to the height of fashion, but still unruly. And, the matter of her hair aside, if one were to judge by the brief glimpse of her character, too, she was Ross’s child to the core, stubborn and reckless - though that could be her mother just as easily.

A daughter! _His_ daughter!

“Have you daughters, Mistress Poldark?” Lavinia asked, her usual calm affixed back in place, ignoring Ross’s stunned silence.

“Just one, Clowance. She is but three.”

“Have a care when she gets older that she does not become a vain creature. Mine could sit as a magistrate, if she applied her mind, but she will spend all her time at the theatre and the haberdasher.”

The comparison made Demelza laugh, and the rest of the visit was as many such calls are - time spent discussing the amusements in town, Demelza’s commentary about how much more expensive everything was in London and Lavinia’s sympathy on the same, the promise to exchange the name of one’s dressmaker and the source of one’s tea. When they left, Ross had regained a little of his composure, though he wished now that they had not come, for his mind was far, far away. A daughter!

“She seems an agreeable woman,” Demelza allowed, when they had taken their leave and begun their walk back to their lodgings. “Not at all what I pictured from what Annie read me in the papers.”

“She has a talent for making herself agreeable, I’m sure.” 

She bristled at the slight, but chose not to say anything, and for a while, they continued in silence. “You were very quiet,” his wife finally observed.

“I had little to say.” And that was the furthest he would speak on the subject. That night he went to bed without anything more than a cool wish good night, burying his head in his pillow still consumed with the fact that across this city there was a child of his body whom he did not know beyond her name, and a woman, her mother, who had kept her a secret from him for reasons he did not yet understand.

* * *

 

The next day, departing at his usual hour, he did not make for the House, but instead for Mayfair, and the residence of Sir James Montrose. “Lady Lavinia is out, sir,” the footman said, surprised to see the same face two days in a row. “I’ll wait,” Ross announced, pushing past the servant and installing himself in the drawing room.

An hour passed, and then two. Ross availed himself of a book, but found he could not read more than one or two words together. Should he go, and come back? No. He was resolved. Answers would be supplied.

Finally, there was a sound of the front door opening, a greeting, and the explanation, hastily given - “...in the drawing room, ma’am.”

The door opened, and he was already on his feet, ready to greet whoever came through it - Lavinia, dressed for the High Street and a morning out. “Ross.”

Niceties be damned. "Why did you never say?"

She sighed, and sent the footman away, waiting until the door was closed behind him before she spoke. “Please believe me when I say that was not how I would have chosen you to find out.”

“If you intended me to find out at all!”

"What purpose would it have served? You had your interests, your life to live, and I had mine."

"Does Sir James know?" Tell me at least he knows his wife’s bastard was an honest get, and not some mistake from one of the men she despised.

She paused, watching him with careful eyes, and took one, long careful breath. "Sir James asked for it."

Ross stood in stunned silence for a moment, his indignation mounting as he realized what she’d said. "So I was a...a stallion at stud for him?"

How could she be so damnably calm about this? "Ross, that was not it at all. Sir James had need of an heir. He allowed me my choice in the matter and I chose you. It was not a decision that came to me lightly, and I never told you about it for the sake of your ...damned gallantry.” Her eye was fixed on him, the look of seriousness that so seldom came upon her.  Laughing and witty and sparkling Lavinia this was not - this was her true self, the woman underneath the glamour. She softened a little. “I might have had anyone, but I wanted someone I loved - someone I would think of fondly every time I saw my child. And I do. Every day.”

The answer took him aback. Every day! Every day for fifteen years! Whereas he had confined her to a chest in his room, a packet of letters bound with a red ribbon that had once served as her garter, a spray of flowers from her hair, an embroidered belt from the costume of a Turkish prince. While he had built a life with someone else. 

How quickly he had forgotten her and moved on. 

She laid her hand lovingly on his arm, her face sympathetic. “It was my choice, Ross, and I have been happy with it. You did not ...cruelly abandon me at the roadside or consign me to the poorhouse. She has wanted for nothing. Under the law she is Sir James' daughter and will inherit his money and property, and he loves her as the miraculous child of his old age should be loved. And I do not doubt some of that springs from his regard for you." She swallowed, choosing her words carefully, her voice, if it were possible, even more serious now than she had been before. “You will probably not remember every story I told you, but in my youth I was...a little ill-used by him, and he regretted it, deeply, for a very long time. He told me once that it made him happy, to see me with you, that I was...a brighter spirit for your company. When I told him I was breeding and that it was yours, he replied that was as it should be.”

Ross took this in his stride, trying, still, to master the anger that was always his downfall. _Would you have left him_ , he wanted desperately to ask. _Would you have married me, and let me give you more than one?_ He saw, now, a different life than the one he’d lived, lovely Lavinia in Cornwall snubbing George at every turn and with three or four children at her skirts, laughing with Zacky and the other miners at the feast of Saint Sawle and distributing bread at -

But that was a picture of plenty, and there had been lean years, too. He had never known her for a creature of poverty, and as he cast his mind to it, he could not picture Lavinia without her trappings of state, her carriage and hat and fine silk gowns. Would she have borne it, or left him at the first whiff of penury, gone back to London to make a cuckold out of him with some man who could keep her in the state to which she was accustomed? 

Here he was, fifteen years on, trying to save her, when she did not need to be saved. Damned gallantry indeed. He left the vision of their imagined life aside, grasping for something else. Something simpler. She has wanted for nothing - but have you, Lavinia?  “And... you are happy?”

She smiled at that. “As happy as the mother of a nearly-grown daughter can be. Diana is at the age where she lives for trouble, and I worry. But I am happy, despite that.” She watched him, still smiling fondly at his confusion. “And you, Ross? Are you happy?”

Was he? The question had never really entered his mind. He had been happy, for a long while, but recently? He had an endless source of frustration for a job and no real friends to help him in his work, his mine was failing, his wife was turning heads in all the wrong ways, and all these things, which formed the entire bedrock of his marriage, seemed intent on crumbling away to leave him with nothing. 

And suddenly, before he could say yes, of course, perfectly happy, and let the matter lie, he met Lavinia's eye, and knew, as he always knew, that in her own way she'd find him out if he told her anything but the truth.

Well, if anyone would not judge, it was Lavinia.

So he fixed his gaze on her and said what he'd been thinking of - parliament, mine, Hugh Armitage, Monk Adderley and all, one long list to rival Jeremiah's, why he had been afraid to pay a call on her in light of everything he'd said to Demelza on the subject of infidelity, and why the sudden revelation of a bastard terrified him as Valentine never had. Too many other threads - of loyalty and jealousy, fidelity and trust, of secrets and heartbreak and love- that might let the whole fabric of his life come apart if they were pulled. 

When he had finished, Lavinia sat back in her chair for a moment in silence.

“Ross, I shall tell you the truth now, though I do not think you will like to hear it. For someone who makes incautious choices, you make a regular habit of demanding forgiveness from others but so rarely give them the pleasure of knowing your own.”

Indignation sputtered at his lips. “What the devil does that mean?”

“Only that it is a bit rich that you dispute with your wife over the trifling matter of this Armitage fellow when you yourself have been carrying a torch for a woman who’s wanted nothing to do with you for the last fifteen years! Good god, Ross, she was off you when you came to me for your loan!”

“It is not trifling!”

Her voice rose to match his, leaning forward in her chair as though by planting her feet firmer her position might hold. “Ross, it is the passion of an hour!  How does that in any way measure against a marriage of ten years? Has she had a child by him? No. In fact, you’ve no proof she’d done anything but read his poetry and admire his fine eyes - which she would not have done, I may add, if her husband had done his duty in the matter of compliments and attentions! And that the seductions of _Monk Adderley_ trouble you is absurd. The man’s a rake, Ross - he lives to possess things merely to say he’s had them, and you should give Demelza credit that she sees that! He means nothing!"

Here was the woman who had conquered generals and kings - powerful and terrible to behold, unwilling to give quarter. There were not many woman like her in the world today, unafraid to say what they saw - especially to Ross. And she wasn't finished - her eyes were still blazing. " You, meanwhile..."

"What has any of this to do with me?"

"In my youth I may have been fast, loose and a fool for a pair of fine eyes, but at least I am honest about that. When a man sins, and is forgiven that sin, it is good manners for him not to call the kettle black later!”

The whole speech stung as brightly as if she’d slapped him, and it hung about his ears a minute, ringing. He'd wanted to make some remark, but none came. She was right. He'd come to her looking for absolution, permission, even, and she'd given him none of either. Just the truth, as she had said she would, as cold and unforgiving as the striking of a sword.

She leaned forward, catching one of his hands in both of hers, softer now. “You have made decisions - mistakes, even. And Demelza must be allowed some of those, too. In that you must be equals - to be allowed to choose for oneself, and have those choices respected. That is the secret to a successful marriage.” 

“Not a happy one?”

She laughed. “You know I am the last person on earth to advise on happy marriages, Ross. But loyalty? That I do know well. She has always returned to you - even after the grief you have given her over this Armitage business. She might have done differently - Lord knows you have given her cause - but she chooses you. Every time. And you deny she has done it. Do that long enough, and she will one day chose differently. You must let people have their choices, Ross - even when they do not agree with yours. There's respect in that, too.”

Was that it, really? Choice?  Lavinia had chosen not to tell him about his child, hoping not to burden him. Elizabeth had chosen Francis, whether from expediency or the demands of her mother, or the secret whisperings of her heart. Demelza had chosen to fall into Armitage’s arms - but also to reveal her affection for Hugh to Ross, wishing the knowledge would leave their marriage unthreatened. 

While he had chosen not to tell Demelza about Lavinia, because he thought it should not have mattered, as he had chosen not to tell her of Elizabeth and the thousand little movements of his heart towards hers, the habit of a first love to the beloved. Is there room in a man's heart for two women? When he had fallen in with Lavinia, all those years ago, it had not signified - both of them knew she was the passionate embrace of an hour, and it was Elizabeth to whom he would return. But Elizabeth had gone her own way, and Ross...well he had not quite allowed her choice of that either, had he? He had questioned her decision again and again and again, first with Francis and now with George. 

An equal choice. Simple enough, when it was put to him. Lavinia was right - for some time now his marriage had not been one of equals, but rather one where he decided, and Demelza followed. And Demelza was not always one for following.

When he looked back up at Lavinia again, she was smiling - the patient, long-suffering grin of a woman who knows she is right. “Why did I not marry you?”

“Because I was not for marrying," she reminded him, gently. "We would have...dashed each other to pieces, anyway. She _suits_ you, Ross - far better than I would have.”

He considered this a moment, and decided she was right - though the truth of that statement still stung a little. _I might have had a queen_ , he thought to himself, _if I had kept my wits about me._

_But you are not a king - nor were you ever like to be_ , another part of his mind said pointedly. “The Lavinia I knew would not have passed a prize along so easily,” he said, hoping to goad her just a little, for old times’ sake. 

“I hope I have learned some wisdom, in my old age,” she replied with a wry smile. “The Tigress and her claws are not as sharp as they once were, and she has the safety of her cub to consider.”

Ross considered the possibility a moment and had to smile. The safety of her cub. Diana Montrose was a panther, perhaps, more than a tigress - but if the slight glimpse he’d had of her in the doorway was any indication, she was every bit Lavinia’s child. “Has she suitors? Your cub?” He’d no wish to talk any longer of marriages and trust. Why could his life not be simple again?

“Some. None I approve of, but she is young yet.” She studied him a moment, pondering something.  “Shall I write you about them?”

He considered the surge of protective pride that had risen in his throat at the the thought of suitors, and wished, for a moment, that they could share that duty, the careful consideration of a mate. But that seemed unwise - too much tempting of fate. “You had better not.” _She might read my letters._

“Then we will leave it lie,” she decided. “Diana Montrose shall keep her aged father, and Demelza Poldark shall keep her gallant husband.”

His heart twinged. How sad she made it sound! “How is Sir James?” Ross asked, glad that the ‘aged father’ had not made one of his surprise appearances, for once.

“Feeling his age,” Lavinia said with a fond, if sad, smile. “He has these three weeks been in Bath, taking the waters. Diana and I are to join him next week. She is not fond of the prospect, but her father has bribed her with the promise of readily available officers with which to flirt, and that has sweetened it for her, a little.”

Ross smiled, thinking of the sharp-featured man he had once spoken to - in this very room - of mines and dividends and rates of return, and the small hint of smile that had crossed his face when he’d let Lavinia decide what she would about the matter of investments. How often, he wondered, did the young Miss Montrose and her antics give him cause to bring that smile out again? How often did that stern face break into amusement, talking of flirtations, and officers? 

She seemed to guess at his thoughts. “It truly was not my intention to keep her from you, Ross. Please believe that. If you wish to have news, simply write me, and it shall be given you. And if you...have need of a friend, while in London, of whatever kind, these doors are open to you. Ask for my help and I shall try to give it. The name Montrose still opens some doors.”

Of whatever kind. The temptation was there, for the taking - the upstairs boudoir, with its creamy silk sheets, and the absent husband in Bath. Too many happy afternoons had been passed in that bed. But that had consequences now, which had never been there before. “Thank you.” 

She rose from her chair, and he did the same - the meeting was at at end. She crossed the few steps to the door, her hand on the handle. “Will you take a kiss from me? In friendship?” 

“I would.”

Her lips were cool, a reassuring kind of balm gently pressed to his cheek. The man he had been fifteen years ago, he realized, would have taken it very badly that this was the only solace he was given - but the man today was content with it. “Take care, Ross. Believe your wife. And...” she considered this a minute. “You might tell her about Diana. Or us. You’ve need of credit in your accounts with her. A little trust would not go ill.”

He nodded, his throat dry. It was not a conversation he relished having, but Lavinia was right - it would have to be done. “Then this may be the last I see of you.”

She laughed. “If she has made friends with Elizabeth, Ross, despite all that’s been between you, I have every faith in our chances. Send her around when you’ve said your piece - and if I see her before, I cannot promise that _I_ won’t.”

He knew she would, too, and, hat in hand, he made his way out, the footman who had blocked his entry earlier surprised to see him in so sedate a mood. 

He walked, the rest of the afternoon, through markets and thoroughfares, losing himself in the hue and cry of London as he tried to think of what words he would use to say all the things that needed saying, fifteen years worth of apologies, of truths.

It was quite dark when he returned to his rooms. Here were the lights, near the front door - here the cozy little fire in the front room, with Demelza playing with the children, their nursemaid in the background. “Will ye not say good night to your father?” she asked the children, and Jemmy and Clowance both gave him a kiss and said good night as they were bid, shepherded upstairs by their nurse.

When the children were gone, Demelza settled herself on the sofa, as she had done for many nights before now - as she might never do again. “How was Parliament today?” 

Truth. Choices. Loyalty. Trust. “I didn’t go to the House today,” Ross admitted, looking up from the fire to Demelza’s eyes. _Lie to her long enough, and she will one day chose differently._ His wife studied him, waiting for more, and he knew  that once he said what he had to say, there could be no turning back.  


End file.
